Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  The fog prevents me from seeing anything very far ahead. I scramble upward, glad I wore my sneakers. The path to Hill 88, once a paved road, is washed out in places where landslides ripped out huge chunks of concrete and sent them plunging into the rocky surf below. My limited visibility in the fog reveals hillsides of damp, droopy wildflowers that scent the air when the wind blows. The path is dotted with wooden staircases and chaparral-­torn pavement.

  At the top of Hill 88, a crumbling guard shack greets me. The antiaircraft pallets rise in the fog like ghostly specters some twenty feet in the air.

  The only sound is the distant clanging of a fog bell far below me. Occasionally, the mist parts, giving me glimpses of a building not far away. I creep closer, listening for any sounds while trying not to make any noise myself. At the entrance to the building, I stand to one side of the door and draw my gun before peering inside. Nothing but broken timbers and walls covered with colorful graffiti.

  A scream breaks the eerie silence. Oh no. Emerson’s already here somehow. The scream came from somewhere to my right. I run, following a steep path leading down a hillside. The fog lifts a bit and reveals a gaping black entrance to a bunker. I stop, panting. My heart races with fear. I can’t go inside. Not underground. I hear more screaming and shouting.

  I take a big breath and, heart pounding, pause by the entrance. I rummage around and dig my Maglight out of the backpack, turning it on. My hand is shaking as I point it at the big, black, yawning hole in front of me. I close my eyes and steel myself to enter. I put one foot inside and pause.

  I can’t. My fingers clutch the edges of the door, fingernails biting into the old rotten wood. My vision starts to narrow. I can’t get enough air into my lungs.

  She’s going to die if I don’t do something. Maybe Donovan got my message and is on the way. Sullivan should be sending his troops. Maybe I can lure Mark and Annalisa out of this bunker. Maybe not.

  Another scream pierces the silence.

  As much as I wish I could, I can’t wait around for somebody else to rescue Annalisa. I throw my backpack on the ground at the entrance. I hope it will be a sign I’m inside to anyone else who arrives—­Donovan or Sullivan or other cops. A small flight of worn, stone steps lie before me. I press my back against the wall, and, as if my foot is leaden, I force myself to take a step.

  Just one step. Okay, now I’m just inside the entryway. Half of my body is shrouded in darkness—­the other half remains in the dim fog. Already, I can feel the chill of underground—­the difference between above earth and below. My nostrils can smell the damp, musty, earthy smell of the bunker, which has never seen the light of day or had sunshine pour down and warm it. I close my eyes for a moment and try to concentrate on my breathing. In and out. Just like Marsha taught me. Calm your fears and anxieties through deep breathing. I know it works, but why is it so hard to do?

  In and out. In and out. I hear a small whimper. Annalisa. He has her.

  No more breathing exercises. I don’t have time for this nonsense. The gun is heavy in my front pouch. The weight is reassuring. I slide down the next step, one hand on the flashlight, which I click off. I don’t want whoever is down there to see me coming. My other hand gropes the slick, slimy wall, which gives me zero traction. The steps are slippery under my feet, as well. I take a step and land on my butt with a thud.

  Another whimper and what sounds like ghostly whispering. A chill spreads across my scalp as an eerie wailing sound pierces the stillness. I freeze, eyes widening in the growing darkness. I crouch against one wall, pressing my back against the wet slime. The sound starts up again, this time accompanied by an icy breeze. The tension whooshes out of my limbs. But it’s just the wind. It’s whistling through cracks in the bunker. For a second, it is silent, then whimpering and that creepy whispering sound again.

  I remember Marsha’s telling me to try to stifle my fears and anxieties with rational self-­talk. This is not your childhood basement. Your dad is not dead down there . . . but if you don’t get your shit together, there will be a dead body below!

  My teeth are chattering. I can’t tell if it is because of the cold or my fear. My back scrapes along the wall as I stand, legs shaking. I’m starting to imagine seeing things in the dark. As my eyes adjust, I see a glow at the bottom of the stairs. I turn and look at the entrance to the stairway. It’s only a few feet away, but it is as if the bunker is a black hole, and the light seems a mile away. I feel the dark closing in on me. I can’t stand it any longer.

  I click the flashlight back on, keeping my other hand cupped over the end so only the smallest beam of light is at my feet. I peer down into the darkness. How far do these steps go? I slowly make my way down the steps, with my back scrunching along the wall. A few steps more, I accidentally dislodge a rock that noisily tumbles down the stairs.

  A wave of anxiety flattens me. I feel weak, as if my knees are going to give out. I press my back hard against the slippery wall and close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing and my heart, which is thumping loudly in my ears. After a few seconds, I open my eyes, and it seems as if the dark stairway has grown lighter. The pounding in my ears has subsided, and now I hear other sounds.

  More whispering and what sounds like scuffling. I click my flashlight off and freeze, holding my breath, waiting for something or someone to come rushing up the stairs. Nothing happens. No sound. My breath returns to normal. I tuck the flashlight in my pocket slowly and my fingers wrap around the cold metal of the gun as I draw it out.

  In the dark silence, another small whimper. My arm holding the gun is pointing toward the bottom of the stairs, with my finger on the trigger. The click of the safety coming off echoes in the silence.

  “Sean! Don’t shoot! Please. He’s holding me in front of him.” Annalisa’s frantic voice sends chills through me. They think I’m Donovan. Good. Maybe that will scare Emerson into letting her go.

  Annalisa says something else, but it’s muffled, as if Emerson is holding his hand over her mouth. A sudden, deafening blast drops me to my knees. I scream.

  Mary Mother of God! He fired at me. He thinks I’m Donovan. Clumps of dirt and dust rain down on my head, dislodged by the shot. I sprawl on the step, with my cheek on the cold stone. My heart is in my throat, thumping madly. I press myself as flat as I can, with my knees curled in front of me. I hold the gun down, toward the bottom of the stairs. I’m waiting and listening, but the echo of the gunshot has made my ears ring. The only sound is the eerie wailing of the wind whistling through the bunker again and what sounds like more whispering.

  “Don’t shoot,” I say, my voice echoing down the stairwell. “It’s Gabriella. I’m not here to hurt you or arrest you, Mark. I just want to get Annalisa and go home. The cops are on their way. They aren’t here yet. You still have a chance to turn this around, Mark. You can still get away. But you have to leave now. If you stay down there, you’ll be trapped. Send Annalisa up. We’ll leave. You can get away.”

  I wait, straining my ears to hear his answer. But the whispering has stopped. Then, a sound—­something else. At first I question whether I’m imagining it, but after a few seconds, I’m certain. Somebody is creeping down the stairs above me. My eyes have adjusted slightly, but as I squint toward the opening, it is still too dark to make out any shapes.

  “Donovan?” I say, barely above a whisper.

  Bang. Another blast. This time a jagged chunk of concrete hits me in the shoulder. I try not to scream from the pain.

  “Game over, Emerson.”

  It is Donovan. His voice sounds firm and confident. Relief rushes through me. “Send Gabriella and Annalisa up, and you’ll get out of here alive.”

  “Fuck you, rookie!” It’s hard to believe how much venom Emerson can put into three short words. I can almost hear the spittle flying out of his mouth. I clutch my gun, finger poised near the trigger.

  More scuffling, but my ears are ringi
ng from the echoes of gunfire in the stairway. I can’t tell which direction the sounds are coming from. I feel cold metal against my neck and whispering in my ear. “Don’t say a word. Down the stairs.”

  Emerson.

  I make a move to shove my gun into his stomach, but before I can, he head butts me. I see bright shards of light zigzag across my closed eyelids. My gun clatters down the stairs as my hand goes limp, and I collapse in a heap. In my dazed state, Emerson yanks me downward by one arm, nearly tearing it out of its socket. I painfully clump down the stairs until I land with a thud at the dirt bottom.

  For a second, I’m free, and I scramble to my feet before a claw like grip clamps down on my arm.

  “Not so fast.” He shoves me. I crash into a warm body. “Annalisa?”

  I’m answered by muffled sobbing.

  A bright light is shining in my eyes. I blink, unable to see beyond it. Annalisa is crouched in the dirt beside me. A dirty rag is covering her mouth. Her eyes are wild with fright. A small, purplish bruise is forming around one eye, and her cheek looks like it has a rash on it. I reach out and tug the gag out of her mouth.

  Emerson sees me and kicks me in the thigh. “Annalisa, here’s your prize. Have at her.”

  Annalisa gives him an incredulous look, eyes wide.

  “¡Te voy a matar! ¡Pudrete en el infierno!” My Spanish is rusty, but I’m pretty sure she just told him to eat shit and die—­or something along those lines.

  “I did it all for you,” he says, giving her a flirty smile.

  Annalisa watches him in horror, with a hand pressed against her mouth and her eyes wide.

  “Everything has been for you.” His eyes are glassy. The deadness suddenly gone. “You never had to bring those tapes. You never had to try to get money from me. Don’t you understand? Everything, everything I have is yours. I give you everything willingly. I will treat you like a princess. Don’t fight me, my love.

  “Do you finally understand how serious I am?”

  A small noise echoes from the stairs. Emerson jerks around and fires off a round up the stairs. I gasp, holding my breath, praying and hoping Donovan wasn’t hit. Emerson acts like nothing has happened and continues speaking to Annalisa, who glares at him.

  “I forgive you for everything. You were confused. But now you can see how much I care. How we are meant to be together. I even took care of everyone on the task force so we could be together forever. With all of them dead or put away, there’d be nobody who could dredge up the past to hurt us.”

  Annalisa’s face scrunches up with fierce concentration as she spits into the dirt at the same time she gives him a look that would have withered a lesser man. The veil drops from his eyes again. He looks like a little boy whose mother has scolded him for something he didn’t even realize was wrong—­devastated and confused.

  Although my ears are still ringing, I hear Donovan’s voice shouting my name, seemingly from a long distance away. Thank God, he’s okay.

  “Stay where you are, rookie scum. One step down here, and I’m going to pull the fucking trigger. I’ll blow their fucking heads off. You know I will.” Emerson turns his head and shouts again, “Stand down, rookie fuck.”

  Silence.

  Then he turns to me. “Tell him to back off!” He turns toward the stairway and crouches, creeping closer to it. He’s trying to provoke Donovan. My body is now shaking uncontrollably. I start to feel as if I’m going to pass out. The walls and the darkness are closing in on me, and I start to hyperventilate. But I’m not going to cooperate.

  “Say it!” he says, looking back over his shoulder at me. I shake my head in refusal. It happens so fast I don’t have time to duck or react. Emerson is back next to me and his fist lands on my jaw. An acrid metallic taste fills my mouth. Blood. My head reels, and it takes me a moment to focus. I’m relieved I didn’t pass out.

  “Tell him!” He hisses the words. “He’s the last thing standing in our way.”

  Emerson kneels before Annalisa. “Nobody will ever love you like I do. You are my queen. Please—­”

  She regards him with disgust, shrinking away.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spot movement in the shadows behind him, near the stairs, and hear a small sound. Emerson must hear it, too, because he whirls around, but it’s too late. He is yanked off his feet by some seemingly invisible force in the dark. The light goes clattering out of his hands and shines on a graffiti-­covered wall. The reflection creates enough of a glow to dimly light the small chamber we are in.

  I jump to my feet and grab the flashlight, shining it around in the darker, shadowy corners, frantically searching for my own gun. The light briefly illuminates Emerson and Donovan. The two men are struggling. Emerson is trying to put his gun up to Donovan’s head. Donovan is pushing Emerson’s arm down and away

  I scan the chamber with the flashlight, looking for my gun. I hear Annalisa beside me, scrambling to her feet.

  There it is. At the base of the steps. My gun. I set the flashlight down and dive for it. Once it is in my hands, I roll over, aiming for Emerson. In the blur of bodies illuminated by the flashlight, I can’t be certain whom I will hit, so I don’t pull the trigger. I can’t take the chance of hitting Donovan.

  “Get away from him, Mark.” My voice wavers as much as my arm.

  A blur heads toward the two men. Annalisa. She brings a large piece of wood down on the back of Emerson’s head. The blow stuns Emerson into lowering his gun to his side. He staggers back a few feet. Donovan retreats a few feet back, as well, and reaches for his gun.

  But before he can, Emerson steadies himself, lifting his arm and aiming his gun at Donovan, who is still reaching for his own weapon. In the shadows, I see Annalisa rushing toward Donovan. I only have a second. I raise my arm, gun pointing at Emerson.

  Time slows.

  In small snapshots, I take in the scene. It’s too late. Emerson’s finger is squeezing his trigger. Donovan is reaching for his holster. It’s empty. His gun is on the ground, lost in the struggle. He knows it at the same second I do, and our eyes meet. I fire my gun at the exact same moment as Emerson. The simultaneous gun blasts are deafening in the small space. I rush toward Donovan, but I’m confused by what I see. He is looking down in horror. At his feet lies Annalisa’s crumpled body. A hole right between her wide eyes.

  Donovan takes the gun out of my hand. I continue to stare at Annalisa, slowly comprehending what has happened. She threw herself between Emerson’s bullet and Donovan.

  I reluctantly turn my head to where Emerson had been standing. He’s on the ground. Blood is gurgling out of his mouth and nose and throat, and yet he reaches both arms out toward Annalisa’s body. “No. No. No.” The words are thick with blood. A look of intense pain blankets Emerson’s face.

  Donovan crouches and says something quietly in Emerson’s ear. A second later, when Emerson’s heart ceases to pump, the blood stops. His eyes remain open, glued on Annalisa’s body.

  All I can hear is the faint wail of sirens in the distance.

  Chapter 58

  I’M A TERRIBLE patient. All I want to do is throw on my clothes and run out the hospital doors. Instead, I’m sitting here feeling foolish in this flimsy hospital gown waiting for the okay to flee this joint.

  The doctor said the lump on my head didn’t even land me a concussion. I must have a tough skull. Emerson’s punch in Mexico did more damage when he knocked out a tooth, giving me a goofy gap off to the side.

  But because I violently threw up in the ambulance on the way here, the doctor gave me an MRI and took some blood. He told me not to worry, it was probably from drinking the Mexican water, with all its “assorted little critters” my body’s not used to having inside.

  “That’s not reassuring,” I say to Donovan with a frown.

  I yawn.

  “Relax. You have time to take a nap, even,” Donov
an tells me. He’s sitting in the chair beside my hospital bed.

  “Maybe I’m anemic.”

  “Here. Meat.” Donovan scoops up some of the meat loaf from my tray, holding the spoon up to my mouth. “I know this is slop, but have a few bites, and I’ll grill you a big, fat juicy steak when we get home.”

  “If you don’t move that spoon, I think I’m going to vomit all over you,” I say, trying not to retch from the smell. It doesn’t work. I grab the ugly, yellow, U-­shaped tray and vomit.

  Perfect. That’s exactly what I want my boyfriend to watch me do.

  But Donovan is holding my hair back from my face. When I am done, he gently wipes my face off with a wet rag, then sits back down and rubs my arm soothingly.

  “I’m sorry,” I say with a sheepish look.

  “You’ve been through a lot. But it’s all over now. I promise. Try to rest for a few moments. We’ll be home before long.”

  Home. He didn’t say his place or mine, he said home. I think about Annalisa. She must have truly loved Donovan to throw herself in front of that bullet. Maybe he was the only person in the world she loved more than herself. I wish I could say I was sad about her death, but right now, I have too many other emotions. It was her fault all this happened in the first place. I don’t wish anyone dead, but I can’t say I regret her actions. She did, ultimately, save Donovan’s life.

  Exactly like she told me she had done.

  A chill runs through my body when I remember Emerson’s face. He loved Annalisa obsessively, violently, more than he loved life itself. He died knowing that love was not returned, but it didn’t diminish his love for her.

  Now, he’s on a morgue slab because of me. I have the blood of two ­people on my hands. I feel my heart thumping under my chin. Does that mean I’m no better than all the killers I write about? Who or what gives me the right to take a life? And then I scold myself. When I borrowed a gun, what did I think would happen? If you have a gun, you better expect to maybe use it one day. I was a fool to think I could play with it as a toy.